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The rice grains dance around Luo Binghe’s fingers as he swirls his hand in the water, the sound of it running and sloshing over the bowl as his focus wavers. He tips the water away and does it again, but this time his attention is stolen from the way the rice feels against his skin. First, by the way the older cook next to him deftly chops ginger, every piece beautiful and exactly the same size. Second, by the whispers.
He knows better than to worry. One of the things his early life taught him and life at Cang Qiong Mountain reinforced was that bad news never came through the lulling noise of whispers. Whispers accompany small worries, secrets, gossip. Bad news, really bad news, either arrive shadowed in the heavy cloak of silence, or surrounded by the earth-shaking and heart-kicking sound of a despairing wail.
“A-Luo!” Ning Yingying calls, in a hiss that tells him she’s called his name more than once. “How many times are you going to wash that rice?”
He looks down at his hands, lifting his almost-pruned fingers.
He’d been distracted for hours now, ever since he got dragged out of the woodshed by a confused Ming Fan and kicked into Shizun’s room, ever since he’d seen the odd expression in his master’s face, ever since he’d been handed that little vial of medicine.
Luo Binghe shakes his head, and drains the rice one final time.
The hubbub of the small kitchen makes sense to him—he doesn’t know why. Pots clanging, sharp knives hitting wooden blocks, steamers being stacked up on top of each other, wooden spoons scraping against bowls. The steam rising, the water bubbling, the hum of it all.
It had been a recent discovery—a day where his body was sore and bruised after a sentence muttered too loudly, after Shizun’s eyes glaring at him like he was nothing—Ning Yingying had pulled him into the kitchen with her and a few other disciples.
“You won’t get in trouble here, come and help me.”
He’d been in the kitchen before, of course. But not like this. Not cooking, not making things with his hands. He had cleaned, he had helped, he had taken food scraps outside, and had carried food out.
Now, he paid just as much attention as he paid to his guqin instruction, to his calligraphy lessons. Food was simple, it was clear in his head how it was meant to be made, the steps to achieve it. After only a couple of weeks of this, Luo Binghe had started wondering what would happen if they’d let him steam the rice in ginger a little longer, if they threw the spring onions in too. He longed to do more, to discover just how many different flavours could go together.
For now, he was allowed to wash rice, and to watch. That was good enough.
He’s put to work by the cooks and other disciples while the rice cooks, while the soup is finished, while things get plated.
Then, once bowls are full of fragrant lotus root soup, Ning Yingying points at the trays closest to him and asks him, “Which one do you want to take?”
He knows which one is Shizun’s just by taking a look at it. Food at Qing Jing Peak is light and fresh and as bland as possible, but Shizun’s doubly so. No more than a cloud of dark soy sauce, never a thin and perfect white-and-green spring onion, never the bright ruby-toned chilli oil Luo Binghe loves.
Shizun’s food is as plain as it gets. He grabs the tray and eases his way further into the bamboo house, head down and heart heavy.
He hasn’t forgotten the medicine. He hasn’t forgotten how it helped, how good it felt. But he hasn’t forgotten Shizun’s confusion either, the expression that crossed his elegant face, the furrow of his neat brows.
He hasn’t forgotten the soreness of his body and the hours in the cold, dark shed.
“Shizun,” he says, bowing his head respectfully as he stands at the edge of the room.
He looks down at the bowl for the hundredth time, checking the clear broth, the perfectly round lotus roots in it. Not one spring onion in sight, no chillies. Perfectly plain.
He remembers the burning humiliation of having a bowl of congee dumped on his head months ago, when he’d accidentally mixed up the bowls. He doesn’t wish a repeat of that moment. Not today, not ever again.
Luo Binghe moves the bowl off the tray and onto the empty corner of the wooden table, careful not to knock any of the papers and scrolls on it. He avoids eye contact when he can. Shen Qingqiu is untouchable in his beauty and poise, and while Luo Binghe still doesn’t understand the meaning of the little vial of medicine he’s been using, he’s not enough of a fool to believe his Shizun suddenly cares for him.
Shizun dismisses him quickly, stumbling after his words uncharacteristically. He’s not quite well, yet, Luo Binghe decides.
He’s about to leave the room when he hears it, no louder than the wings of a bird, or the cry of the cricket.
“The things I wouldn’t do for some spring onions…”
The hair on Luo Binghe’s arms and neck stands to attention, a shiver goes through him and he stops, standing still in the doorway, his back to Shen Qingqiu.
He knows two things. He knows whatever that change of heart was, he wasn’t meant to hear it, and most importantly he knows there’s something very, very wrong with his Shizun.
After a couple of days of this relentless pacing and endless turmoil in his heart, Luo Binghe’s feet start to constitute a serious threat to the wooden floor right in front of Shizun’s room. Whenever he’s not training, learning, practising, or cooking, Luo Binghe paces waiting for news.
It's not ideal, with all disciples, Sect Masters, and Peak Lords passing through to check on Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe is unmoved. He will see his Shizun.
He’s shooed, beaten, called every name under the sun. None of the abuse he endures comes close to what he’s used to, and definitely not anywhere near to what he’s feeling right now.
He tries to make sense of it all, of Shizun throwing his body in front of his own, of the pat on his head. But most of all of Shizun’s words…
Shizun knew he’d definitely win.
He’d never had this much faith deposited in him before, not by anyone, let alone Shen Qingqiu.
How had he missed this? How had he not known, how much his Shizun cared, how much effort and work went into all he did for Luo Binghe? It wasn’t enough to know it, it wasn’t enough to vow to himself to dedicate his entire life to his Shizun. He had to tell him, as soon as he was awake, as soon as they’d let him in.
When they finally do, Luo Binghe all but falls into the room. His thoughts are still racing, his promises practiced. He would give his Shizun the moon, wrapped up in a silk scarf, if his Shizun so much as hinted at wanting it.
Luo Binghe would make his promises, loud and publicly if he must. And so he does, heart thundering in his chest, and his entire soul breaking apart upon seeing his master.
The pain shoots through his knees and up his legs all the way to his hips, but it’s not unwelcome. Luo Binghe had been wrong.
Shen Qingqiu was a ruthless, brutal teacher, but for all the right reasons. He has trusted in Luo Binghe, he had believed in him—and he has put his own brilliant, beautiful existence at risk for Luo Binghe.
There was no making up for this, no excuse, no forgiveness. Luo Binghe begs anyway, tears hot and fast falling down his cheeks and onto the floor beneath him.
The shame is so big inside him, he can’t stop the tears, can’t stop the feeling of failure crawling up his throat. This isn’t the way things go. It’s Luo Binghe’s job to protect his Shizun. Not the other way around—never the other way around.
When he looks up, dizzy with the desperation of it all, Shizun’s expression is a curious one. Luo Binghe blinks his tears away. A flutter of eyelashes, two, three—and his vision is clear.
Shizun is gaunt and pale, cheeks sunk in more than usual, his shiny long hair limp and out of its usual perch atop Shen Qingqiu’s head.
His hair is so long like this, and Binghe wants so much to run his fingers through it, to brush it carefully, gently unknot it, and tie it neatly, out of Shizun’s face.
This is, of course, not an option. But Binghe knows what his Shizun needs. Binghe can help, still.
He doesn’t need an answer, though he waits for it. He can see it in Shizun’s sparkling eyes, in the barely there tick of his jawbone.
Shizun wants something Binghe can give him. Once Shizun agrees, he runs through the bamboo house directly into the kitchen and wastes no time.
There’s only one thing for when you feel sorry for yourself, he thinks. This is what he’d want, too.
He starts on the rice—a practiced but careful dance. No food has ever had to be as perfect as this.
While it gently bubbles away, Luo Binghe minces the pork, mixes it together with grated ginger, a dash of plum wine and gets lost in the motions of it. Stirring, tasting, stirring again.
He’d made so many versions of this for the past couple of days, bowl upon bowl of congee that ended up in undeserving mouths.
This one, though. This one was to be perfect.
He serves it solemnly, and stands by Shizun’s bed as he eats, nails digging into the meat of his palms to stop himself from interrupting, from helping, from taking the ladle himself and feeding Shizun.
It’s a tense wait, but it’s worth it. The words burrow themselves in the depths of his heart, and he’s not even embarrassed for the way his face carves itself into a grin.
“This master likes it very much. From today onward, I’ll leave this to you.”
“Sugar.. Yeast… Water…”
Luo Binghe unconsciously twirls his fingers as if to stir the ingredients before he slices through a thick mass of thorns with a shaky hand. Xin Mo fights him with every cut, with every downward motion of the blade. It wants more, always more. Most days Luo Binghe does not have the strength to fight back.
Xin Mo is his master more than the other way around. He does its bidding, bends to its will. The darkness consumes every inch of him, but not this.
“Pour it over the flour...”
He catches himself doing the stirring motion this time, fingers pinched as if holding chopsticks. It’s hard to long for a past he didn’t know he’d come to miss. Days are hot, nights are cold. Luo Binghe’s body is sore and tired of being taken, of the roil of his demonic blood in his system. Luo Binghe’s heart is sorer and more tired.
He tries not to let his lip tremble where he can be seen. The sword knows though—about his weakness, about his love. It knows too much, this demon heart of his.
When he closes his fists ready to knead his imaginary dough, it’s fully conscious of this weird coping mechanism he developed.
It wasn’t… good. But it was better than the alternative. It was better than the longing, the missing, the pulsing ache in his chest.
If he doesn’t distract himself, the still ground shifts beneath his feet every time he thinks of the world outside of this place moving on without him, every time he replays the moment he fell.
Because he did fall.
The moment the memory of Shen Qingqiu’s face pops into his head, he starts up again, picking up the recipe where he left off.
In his mind, he can almost feel the dough under his hands, the dusting of flour tickling the hair in his arms.
He kneads, and kneads, and kneads—only stopping to cut a better path for himself, to crouch under thick branches, or jump over suspiciously placed bushes.
When he’s done rolling up the dough, he cuts it into small pieces (he uses Xin Mo for it, though it trembles in his hand as if fuelled by rage), and then rolls these into balls between the palms of his hands.
He repeats this for as long as he can, mantou after mantou.
Next, he must let them proof. He can do that. He can distract himself through this endless hell.
Something in the darkness to his right hisses, like a release of steam. He doesn’t look. He mustn’t look. His goal is to survive, and to find a way back up, no matter how much it hurts.
When his mind stops his imaginary kneading, his heart breaks all over again. Shizun’s hands are on his shoulders, shoving him, and he’s falling and falling and falling, the darkness all around him. The expression on Shen Qingqiu’s face had been the last thing he’d seen for so long (Days? Weeks? It was hard to tell in the dark. It was hard to tell how long he sat, dazed and broken, after he first fell).
Because he’d fallen.
He didn’t know why he remembered Shizun’s hands on him. He’d fallen, backwards, hands scrambling up, grabbing at nothing. Why had Shizun’s hands ever been on him? Why did he feel them still, like bruises against his skin, hot and sore and there there there?
He’d known he’d wanted Shizun’s attention more than his fellow disciples, he’d known he’d wanted… more.
A sob threatens to crawl up his throat, tears hot in his eyes.
So he kneads. He rolls the soft warmed dough between the palms of his hands. If he focuses enough he can hear the water running, the fire crackling, something bubbling away. The lullaby of a kitchen.
He finds a hollowed out tree—a husk of a thing, dead and grey, wood cracking as if split by two giant hands. These aren’t always the safest of places but he can tell there’s no lingering malicious intent, and he checks for any creatures before stepping in fully and shedding his outer layer.
He’s not fully protected from the wind that howls around him, from the branches above him that thump thump thump away every second. He won’t get much sleep, but the body needs its rest, no matter what.
Just as he’s drifting off, the mantou are ready—fluffy, white, perfectly round.
In the very back of his mind, there’s a sound, a perfect little noise, something between a moan and a gasp. Luo Binghe is afraid to forget it, afraid he’ll never hear it again, afraid it will never go through him like a savage flash of lust and contentment all at once. It’s the sound Shen Qingqiu makes when he first bites into a fresh little bun just like these he’s been cooking in his mind all day.
His lip trembles and this time he lets go. There’s only his sword and the darkness to judge him, and he knows they both already do.
“And then he—,” Luo Binghe pauses, despite knowing he’s not getting an answer. “I know Shizun likes him. And, well, he certainly likes Shizun. Which is why—”
Why I haven’t completely obliterated him and then carved little figurines out of his bones, Luo Binghe thinks. He doesn’t say it. Shizun has already forgiven so much of him, he wouldn’t this. It disgusted him, though, the ease with which Liu Qingge had given up.
To say he wanted to fight would be untrue. He never did. But he was proud to, glad to defend what was right, happy to continue doing so until he lacked the strength. He could never kill Liu Qingge, he knew this.
There isn’t a world in which Luo Binghe would surrender his Shizun so easily. He has no choice but to fight back, no matter how many times Liu Qingge returns, despite all the accusations he has to hear, no matter how easy or how brutal the fights are.
They’re always different. Some days they take barely any time, two strikes against Cheng Luan and they’re done. Other days, it goes on and on, seemingly never ending.
Today had been somewhere in the middle.
“I get tired, sometimes, Shizun. I… well, I learned from the best.” His voice wavers, and he focuses back on the task at hand, taking his càidāo through all the vegetables in front of him, methodically peeling, slicing, chopping, or mincing.
On a bad day, this is what keeps him together. When his shoulders shake with the weight of it all, the memories of Shen Qingqiu’s body against his and then falling backwards playing on an endless loop.
“This one, this one I think is what I’d want to eat if I’d been asleep for so long. This humble disciple is honoured to cook for his Shizun,” he says, and steals a glance at the bed, at the unmoving body.
The hope he carries is a heavy burden. This cooking, not that he tells anyone about it, is as much for Shen Qingqiu as it is for himself.
The thought of his master waking up, the thought of it finally working… Luo Binghe wants to be ready for it. He has fresh robes at the ready, a warm meal going at all times.
“It’s all for Shizun,” he says, not brave enough to say more than that, even in the cold silence. Even to unhearing ears.
It is all for him, though. Always has been. Every molecule of Luo Binghe’s body misses Shen Qingqiu. Some nights, fighting against the biting cold, he thinks he might even take his old Shizun back, the one who scolded him and beat him. That would be enough, maybe.
Better than this.
He lights the fire carefully, throwing the ingredients into the pot with care, one by one, in the order and timing he’s perfected by now.
“It’s good practice,” he says, stirring the pot. “Shizun always said that masters are only masters because they never stop practising. It must be true for Liu Qingge. He’s a worthy opponent, this disciple isn’t ashamed to admit it. He doesn’t…”
He doesn’t get it. He wants to take you away from me, he wants to give up on you and I can’t. I can’t.
“You’ll see. He will tell Shizun when Shizun wakes up. All the horrible things he said to me, for keeping Shizun safe. He means it, he does. But he doesn’t understand it’s my duty.”
The vegetables soften quickly over the hot flame. He throws the tofu in next. After, the sizzle of the stock hitting the hot pot soothes Luo Binghe’s heart.
“None of it matters. When Shizun wakes up, all will be well. I’ve got a hot meal ready, and I have Xin Mo. I will keep Shizun safe, at all costs. Liu Qingge will see that he was wrong.”
His hot and sour soup doesn’t take long at all. Practice makes perfect is both true for swordsmanship and cooking. Luo Binghe has made this one dozens of times, and he sighs deeply at the first sip.
He brings two bowls over and sits on the floor by the bed, placing both carefully in front of him. Some days he can’t bring himself to look too closely at Shen Qingqiu. The stillness hurts too much, his slack face. Luo Binghe misses his frown, the deep furrow of his brow when he’s upset, the way he hides a smile behind his fan when he’s secretly pleased. Speaking of his fan, he misses the way his long fingers tell a story too, how gracefully he moves, how his robes always seem almost made of water, the way they follow every movement of Shizun’s body, even when he’s fighting.
This, he refuses to say out loud. Not even in the darkest of times will he say it. He can’t.
Instead he says, “Shizun, after dinner I will brush your hair and braid it neatly for you.”
There. That’s a plan.
There’s no magic in the soup, but his heart hurts a little less with the first ladleful.
That will do, for now.
The kitchen in the bamboo house is one of Luo Binghe’s favourite places in the whole world. In a way, Luo Binghe had fallen in love here.
It’s never cold, never dark even in the depths of winter, and everything is exactly where Luo Binghe needs it to be. It’s a lovely place. Except, today of all days, it seems to have shrunk.
Luo Binghe sighs.
His hair is escaping from where he had tied it tightly atop his head, and he’s standing holding a pot of rice, not knowing where to put it.
There is not enough space in the kitchen.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu starts, standing by the table, pulling the lid off a steamer basket first to peek inside, and then the lid off a pot of noodles. “Is this really necessary?”
Luo Binghe pushes a tray to one side, a teapot to the other, and finds a place for his rice, turning to poke a knife into the roast duck, checking for doneness underneath the crisped skin.
“Shizun.”
“No. If you’re going to insist on this you will not call me that.”
The tone is sharp but not unkind. Shen Qingqiu hadn’t been unkind in years. Binghe’s Shen Qingqiu, whatever had brought him here, was patient and loving.
Luo Binghe stops to look at his beloved. His elegant fingers poking at the ingredients on the table, the curve of his mouth where the smile he’s doing a bad job of hiding is coming through.
He wants to kiss Shen Qingqiu so much it hurts. But he can’t. There’s no time to waste. He’s nearly done. He just has to add the sugar to the red bean soup, and take the fish out.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu says again, even gentler this time, approaching only once Binghe’s hands are free. “You don’t have to do any of this.”
His and Shen Qingqiu’s senses of duty are often mismatched, but in this case Luo Binghe may even be in agreement. He doesn’t have to do any of this.
He wants to, though.
He can’t help but think of the many ways things could have gone differently, of the many things that went wrong still. The things he can’t have, the things they can’t do the proper way.
But Luo Binghe can give Shen Qingqiu at least this.
A wedding feast.
No matter how much his Shizun would complain through his words and the flipping of his fan over his face, Luo Binghe knew he was pleased. He had been pleased when Luo Binghe first suggested it, Shizun’s naked body draped over his in bed.
The truth had been out for weeks, Luo Binghe confessing in front of his Shang-shishu. But he’d wanted to do it right… or as right as they would manage it. Shen Qingqiu’s reactions weren’t the easiest to read, even after all these years, but Luo Binghe had seen his eyes grow wide at the idea of a makeshift wedding ceremony, at Luo Binghe’s “I think this humble disciple would look good in red.”
He loses himself in the motions of the kitchen again, stirring the sugar into the thick bean mixture with care. He can feel Shizun’s presence even when he focuses. It’s not often he hovers like this when Luo Binghe cooks, or cleans. It’s reassuring, today. It feels special. It feels good.
That is, until Luo Binghe looks up and finds Shen Qingqiu with a half eaten shrimp roll in his hand and his mouth full.
“Shizun!”
Shen Qingqiu has the decency, at least, to look bashful.
“Out of my kitchen! Out, out, out, now!” he says, shooing his beloved away with one hand while still stirring.
In the end, it’s worth it, like he knew he would be.
Shen Qingqiu looks radiant in red satin and silk that match the way his cheeks flush. It’s been weeks of Shen Qingqiu using the word, and longer even of Luo Binghe thinking it, but tears still flood his eyes as they kneel together by the table, the tea trickling out of the teapot Luo Binghe holds high over the cup Shen Qingqiu is holding.
“Please have some tea, husband.”
It feels impossible that a world this lacking of magic created Shen Qi— Shen Yuan.
Shen Yuan was handsome. It was obvious that Luo Binghe’s husband would be perfect in every form, in every universe. It made sense.
He carried himself differently here, but Luo Binghe was nothing if not a good student. He’d been good for his Shizun an entire lifetime. He wouldn’t let him down now.
His heart was full from seeing these unfamiliar streets Shen Yuan navigated with ease, meeting his family, hearing the teasing but fond stories of Shen Yuan’s childhood.
But this—spending time with his Shizun, this was the best part.
It had started in the kitchen, where Luo Binghe found a flustered Shen Yuan standing over a smoking pot.
“Shi— Yuan-ge. Can I help?”
“I… ah, Binghe. I just wanted to make you something.”
The tone is sad, Luo Binghe almost expects Shen Yuan to do the defeated fan-motion he recognises as disappointment in Shen Qingqiu. But of course, Shen Yuan does not have a fan, though the way he squints his eyes is not wholly unfamiliar to Luo Binghe.
“If Shizun is hungry, this disciple can—”
“No. I wanted to make you something. From here. From… my world.”
Which is how they end up in among the tall buildings, with Shen Yuan leading the way and talking rapidly.
Their first stop is a little café, where Shen Yuan smiles as he orders in words Luo Binghe does not recognise. It’s the most beautiful smile in the world, his Shizun’s. The waitress smiles back and Luo Binghe holds onto his Shizun’s arm and glares until she stops.
The drink Shen Yuan passes to Binghe is a light purple colour, with small dark beads at the bottom of the cup. Shen Yuan’s own drink is softer in colour, milky brown with colourless chunks at the bottom.
Luo Binghe eyes them with suspicion.
“You’ll like it,” Shen Yuan says. “Just suck.” Then wraps his lips around the tube that sticks out of his drink. Luo Binghe nearly blacks out.
But he does as he’s told, choking a little on the black pearls.
“Chew, Binghe,” Shen Yuan says.
It’s— oh.
It’s delicious.
He’ll have to learn how to make this back home.
Their next stop is even brighter, louder, and smellier.
Luo Binghe does not trust this place to make anything well, let alone food. But he’s trusting Shizun, as he goes on about junk food.
“It’s good. You’ll like it,” he says again. And Luo Binghe did like his purple milk with dark pearls. He trusts his husband with his life.
What Shen Yuan later brings to their unstable shiny table is a flimsy tray with an assortment of bright, steaming hot food wrapped in paper.
It smells good, he can admit that much. Savoury, salty, hot.
“Cheeseburger,” Shen Yuan says, and pulls apart the shiny bread to show Luo Binghe the inside. “Bread bun, beef, cheese, lettuce, pickled cucumber, onion, and sauce.”
Unlike the magical tapioca balls, these are all things Luo Binghe is familiar with.
“Try it,” Shen Yuan says, biting into his own, and moaning.
Now that is a sound Luo Binghe is familiar with. He loves his Shizun’s reactions to food, his little blissed out sighs, his deep hums.
“Try it,” he says again, once he swallows, the most beautiful expectant expression on his face.
It’s… greasy. Good. Oh, delicious. No— it’s… not good at all.
Luo Binghe goes through every emotion in the span of thirty seconds.
“What is that?”
Shen Yuan eyes sparkle. “Do you like it?”
“I’m not sure.”
He motions to the greasy yellow sticks on the tray.
“You should try the fries.”
Out of all things that had happened so far since Luo Binghe and Mobei-Jun crawled into this universe, this is by far the most confusing.
He won’t let his Shizun down though, and tries the fries.
His immediate reaction is now we’re onto something. They’re warm, just on the cusp between perfectly salted and too-salty, crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. Luo Binghe loves them.
He goes back to the greasy cheeseburger with deliberate, scholarly attention. He takes apart the bread, and then the meat too. He doesn’t much like the sauces, but if they’re good enough for Shizun then they’re good enough for Luo Binghe.
What he wouldn’t give to cook for his husband. He’d make all his favourites, all the new ones he had learned from Shen Yuan’s mother and sister. The roast piglet Shizun is so fond of, a lovely steamed egg with a little oil and spring onion on, the congee Luo Binghe had first made him—just days after Shen Yuan had become his Shizun, like he’d always suspected and had just yesterday had confirmation of.
But Luo Binghe isn’t dumb. He recognises love and nostalgia when he sees it. This is making Shen Yuan happy.
“Thoughts?”
He can’t help himself.
“Shi— Yuan-ge… I love you very much, but Yuan-ge doesn’t have to eat like this again. Please just let this one cook.”
Shen Yuan’s laughter is clear as a bell—a joyful, sudden thing, much like Shen Qingqiu’s.
It’s Luo Binghe’s favourite sound in the world.